


Take to the Oars

by Peapods



Category: Pundit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If the wind will not serve, take to the oars," Cuba, 1945. Sequel/Epilogue to "The Set of the Sails."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take to the Oars

He can't stay in Japan. He gives them one week and then, having not eaten since that first day, boards a plane back to Hawaii. His editor has left another cable for him, telling him all about Germany and wouldn't he like to go report on the devastation there? And Anderson thinks "no." And for the first time in a very long time he says 'no' as well.

The heat is more oppressive now than it had been the last time. The war hasn't really touched this place and people still carouse and generally make asses of themselves in the streets. He stays in the same hotel and lies naked in a dark room in a bed covered in white linens. The bottle of rum, complimentary thank you sir, was half empty on the bedside table, sweating because Anderson couldn't stand it warm.

He thinks back to a half-remembered night of sex and drinking and wonders what the fuck he's doing laying about. He dresses quickly, not bothering to put on a full kit, and ventures out into the well lit street. The cafe where he first met the man, Keith, is deserted and Anderson has to batten down on his disappointment. The breeze is negligible, the air is thick and stagnant, and he just wants another drink. He wants to meet the man who might have some idea why Anderson can't... do this anymore. Walk around the world and report and pretend that it doesn't mean more than it does.

He's watched soldiers die and cities crumble and bombs go off and countries fall to fascism and racism and so many -isms that Anderson is fucking _sick_ of politics and war.

"You know, dressing like that will draw some fairly licentious attention," says a deep, rich voice and Anderson closes his eyes. He opens them to an amused, closed off face. "Just a note?"

"I had to leave," Anderson says, his voice stronger than it should be.

"Very quickly, it seems. Things that urgent?"

"I'm guessing you weren't paying much attention the past couple years?"

"I paid enough," Keith shrugs. "Busy?"

"Not especially."

Keith's grin is a white slash in the night. "Drink?"

"I could use one."

Keith's home is a little bungalow. Small, but well appointed, and the drink is pretty much an afterthought. They sip from the bottle of eighteen year old scotch, back and forth, the burn of it, the heat in his stomach and the flavors in his mouth making Anderson want a whole lot more than a drink.

"We can skip the pleasantries, right?" Keith asks, already backing him into the bedroom.

"I'm pretty sure we already did."

They're naked, sweat slick and pressing and shoving against one another. Anderson hasn't gotten off in a few months, not with another person. Not since the last person was blown up along with half of his battalion. Anderson is a lucky son of a bitch. He escaped the war with a shrapnel scar the size of tube of lipstick, right on his hip. Keith worries it with his tongue and the tissue has never felt so alive. They take up each others dicks with their mouths and they've both had practice at this but it's unnecessary because they're both stuck in half-remembered memories of a fuck seven years ago.

Anderson comes, groans wringing from his choked throat and he swallows reflexively as Keith comes as well.

They lay in Keith's bed. It's large and covered with the same rich linens from the hotel and it's covered in sweat that cools as the night deepens. Anderson imagines he could grow quite used to sea breezes and the carnival sounds of casinos and street bands.

"Another vacation? Open-ended leaving date?" Keith asks. They're head to foot and it should be awkward, but Anderson can only think of the picture they make. Keith is no Greek god, but then, many of the Greek gods have been defiled and destroyed in the business of world conquest. He thinks he can settle for a slightly overweight, tanned, middle-aged man.

"I think I'll send in my resignation tomorrow, actually," Anderson's voice finally cracks.

"You could no more stop working than you could stop breathing," and it's the brutal truth. Anderson is a worker. He is not a lover or a leader or layabout. That a man who has known him a grand total of three days, carnal relations aside, can see this is surprising. None of his other lovers, save those made in war, have ever understood that about him.

"I need to stop _something_," he says harshly, mostly to himself.

"Stay with me for awhile," Keith says, casual, like he's offering him another drink of scotch. Anderson's limbs are heavy and tingling with sleep and a deep arousal. One that won't be sated by one tumble.

"Here?"

"Well, the sheets might begin to stink after the first few days," Keith says and it breaks something. Anderson is laughing, rolling over, hand grasping at a hairy ankle. Keith's chuckle rumbles and they sit up together. Anderson can barely see him, but his presence is a sweltering weight. Real and substantial.

"I'll stay."


End file.
